


Proudhon in Manhattan

by Quietbang



Series: The New York Avengers [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Disabled Character, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Feels, The Hell that is Class Registration, The Y, Wheelchair Basketball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2015493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quietbang/pseuds/Quietbang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And I'll wake up burning Times Square as we sing/ Throw your hands in the air 'cause property is robbery!</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Steve registers for classes, runs into teammates, and all in all behaves like a functioning human being.<br/>Janet takes him on the secret accessible tour of campus and totally does <i>not</i> procrastinate on her senior thesis. Wanda's dad never really left his 'militant bisexual' phase. </p>
<p>And Bucky? Well, there's been an incident...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proudhon in Manhattan

**Author's Note:**

> title/summary comes from _Proudhon in Manhattan_ by Wingnut Dishwashers Union. cw for possible prescription drug abuse- it's ambiguous, but if it's something you're sensitive about you might want to be careful.

“Hi, what can I do for you?”

Steve craned his neck to see over the edge of the desk. “Hi, yeah, sorry, I tried using the online system to register but it kept kicking me off.”

The girl at the desk rolled her eyes. “Of course it did. It does that to everyone, don't worry, it's not just you. Can I get two pieces of ID, please?”

He passed over his shiny new student card, along with his military ID. The girl's eyes went from the old photo on the card, to him, and back to the card before her smile tightened. 

“Alright then, Steve. Do you have your paperwork with you?”

45 minutes and a neck cramp later, Steve rolled out of the registrar's office clutching a paper copy of his schedule in his teeth. He pulled up by the left wall to grabhis backpack and put his wallet back. It had only taken two occasions of having helpful strangers chase him down in the street to learn that he couldn't just leave it on his lap, not when he couldn't be trusted to notice when it inevitably fell off.  
On the bright side, it turns out that when confronted with a cripple even New Yorkers develop a vague sense of humanity. Who knew. 

“Steve!” Jerking his head towards the noise, he dropped his bag and cursed as the contents spilled out.  
“Oh, shit, that's my fault. Hang on, let me help...”

“That's ok, Janet,” Steve said before she could wheel her powerchair any closer. “I don't think there's room enough in this hall for the two of us.”

She giggled. “Fair enough. What brings you here on this fine summer day?”

Steve laughed. “Fine is ironic, right? It's 95 degrees out there.”

She shrugged. “I've been in the computer labs, we've got air conditioning there. And don't think I didn't notice you avoiding the question.”

“Registering for classes. WebCentre kept kicking me off.”

She frowned. “Yeah, it does that to everyone- wait, you go here? I didn't know that!”

“As of September, yeah. Sorry, I didn't realise you'd be here or I would have said something at practice.”

She waved a manicured hand, shiny pink polish glinting in the sunlight. “No big deal. I wouldn't be here normally, but my senior project proposal is due next week. I'm nearly done with a degree in costuming, to my dad's great shame. I know it's not a real degree, but-”

“Bullshit!” Steve said before he could stop himself. “Sorry. But you shouldn't talk yourself down like that. Some of the smartest people I know are artists.”

She coloured slightly. “Thanks, that's really sweet. Is that what you're studying, then?”

“Sort of. Early childhood art education. I figure I need _some_ marketable skills, you know how it is.”

“Do I ever. I wanted to go to the Manhattan campus and do fashion design, but Dad didn't want me moving away. Costuming seemed like the next best thing I could do and stay in Brooklyn. So you're a new first year, eh? Want me to give you the super secret accessibility tour?”

Steve shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

Janet led the way through the main buildings, keeping up a cheerful monologue the whole way. “And student disability services will _tell_ you that Whitehall Hall is accessible, but they're fucking liars. In the winter they pile all the snow by the accessible entrance, you're better off using the tunnel from the library. Actually, the same with the library- the space between the shelves are too narrow to pass through, although your chair is smaller so you might be alright- still, it's better to just introduce yourself to the librarians on your first day and then e-mail them with your book lists.”

Steve nodded, and tried to pretend that his head wasn't spinning. Janet must have noticed, because she gave him a soft smile. “Sorry, am I going too fast? I forgot how overwhelming it can be. I spent my first few weeks on campus either lost or stuck in an elevator. That was before they replaced them with keyless ones, too, so it was even worse than you're thinking.” 

He shook his head. “No, don't worry about it. Thanks for the tour.”

“Don't mention it.”

She turned the corner that would lead them to the front entrance. “So, where are you headed now?”

“Probably the gym. Got to keep my girlish figure, you know how it is.”

She laughed. “The Y up the street? That's a bit out of your way, isn't it?” 

He smiled. “It's a 40 minute ride home anyway, might as well go to the gym first. You know it?”

“It's the only accessible gym in a five mile radius, of course I know it. I'd tag along, but I really have to finish my proposal. If it gets rejected it will mean six months of work gone up in smoke.” 

“Fair enough. Have a good one!”

He smiled as she rolled away. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad, after all. 

\---

 

Steve pushed into the weight room, looking at the ground to avoid any curious stares. Luckily, the gym was mostly empty on a weekday afternoon. Young mothers in yoga gear chatted in the corner by the dumbells, while an elderly South Asian man shook a medicine ball so hard that his whole body shook. Polka music drifted in from the activity room, and the whole place smelled faintly of chlorine. 

Steve smiled. Working out at the rehab centre all the time had been fine, but he had missed this. It was nice to be part of the scenery, no more or less weird than the heavily tattooed Hispanic woman currently doing chin-ups in a full spandex bodysuit. 

He shook himself out of his reverie, and went to get some plates. Pulling up beside the rack, he stopped. At the VA, he'd always had someone working with him, and so he hadn't realised until then how difficult it was going to be to get the plates- some of which were at quite awkward angles- from the floor up to the machines. 

He bent over to pick up a 45 kilo plate, and flopped over, his stomach pressed hard against his knees. 

He lifted the plate off the floor, and winced. He needed to use his hands to push himself back up, but if he let go of the plate he'd be back where he started. 

He settled for leaning the plate upright against his footrest before he used his hands to push himself back up. 

“I wondered how you were gonna get out of that one,” a voice said behind him. 

Steve jumped, and the resulting jerking of his chair made the plate fall back to the ground. 

“Wanda!” He said, trying and failing to regain his equilibrium “What are you doing here.”

She snorted. “Same as you, I assume. You want a hand there?”

Steve frowned. “I'm not sure you're gonna be any better at this.”

She grinned and hopped out of her chair. “Maybe I'll be a bit more use like this.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. Standing, she was maybe 5'' tall, and both of her legs were encased in bulky braces. One ankle was bound tightly in an AFO. A kind person would say that she looked less than stable. A less than kind person would point out that she looked like a light breeze could knock her over, nevermind a 45 kilo plate. 

“How's your balance like that?”

She took a step closer to the plate, and her gate rolled slightly. “Not great, but I think if I sit on the ground I can pass this up to your lap. We'll work from there.”

It worked like a charm, and she used the front legs of Steve's chair to pull herself back up again. “Now are you going to work out, or just sit there? I'll spot you, but my kids only have two hours of childcare today so we better move fast.”

 

“So,” Steve said as Wanda rested between sets, pushing strands of curly dark hair off of her face. “How'd you get into wheelchair basketball?”

Wanda raised an eyebrow at him and glanced down at her malformed legs. “You really have to ask that question?”

Steve put his hands up defensively. “Nonono, that's not what I meant. But Bruce was telling me the other day that it took him until he was 18 to get into it, and he was born that way too. Sam said you'd been playing since you were five years old.” 

She sighed. “My father was friends with Charles Xavier. As soon as it became apparent that something was... wrong here, he started bringing me to his outreach days for disabled kids. It all kinda snowballed from there.”

Mistaking Steve's frown for confusion, she quickly added “You know who he is, right?”

“Charles Xavier? Yeah, thanks, I am a gay disabled man living in North America. He's come up.”

Charles Xavier, Ph D Ph D, had been one of faces of the global disability rights movement ever since he was shot in 1979 while speaking at a gay rights rally. Armed with a vast family fortune, he had personally promised grants to any community sports facility that would commit to making their programming accessible to people of all abilities. It was rumoured that his friendship with the Mayor of New York was the only reason they had finally committed to making all of the subway stops accessible. 

Wanda snorted. “Well, you never know. People can be dumb. But yeah, my dad knew him during his 'militant bisexual' phase. Xavier's, not my dad's. Although now that I say it like that, I don't know that my father ever really left his militant bisexual phase.” 

Steve grimaced sympathetically. “Interesting family you've got yourself.”

“Oh, you have no idea. Alright, break's over, let me finish this next set and then it's your turn.” 

While they were waiting for the bus, Steve examined his hands and winced. A few of his healed blisters were pink and shiny again, but he was pretty sure that was scar tissue. He was building up some pretty good calluses, but he still finished the day bleeding more often than not. 

Beside him, Wanda arched a dark eyebrow. “Still blistering? Barnes must not be working you hard enough.”

Steve scowled. “I think it's my day chair, actually. It rubs on a different place than my ball chair does.”

Wanda nodded sympathetically. “I know. Fucking annoying, really, but what are you gonna do?” She jiggled her knee slightly, rocking her chubby three year old son back and forth on her lap. “How are you holding up, Steve?”

Steve shrugged. “Ok. It's not that different from stand-up basketball, all things considered.”

“I didn't mean about basketball, I meant, you know- it's a big change, or so I'm told.” 

“Fine,” he said shortly. “I've been doing a lot better. It's all about the adjustment, you know?” He smiled at her. 

She nodded slightly. “Good. I'm glad to hear it.” 

The A13 pulled up to the stop. “That's us, then. See you around, Steve.”

He smiled and waved goodbye as she wheeled onto the bus, sharply asking the lounging teenager by the rear door to “Move, _please_ , I've been told I'm not allowed to break people's ankles anymore.”

The B46 wasn't due for another 10 minutes, and he glanced at his phone. Two texts, one from Bucky at 9:00 AM that said 

> _Got ur note. Havre fun + knoclk them outtt. xx_

and a more recent one from Sam that read

> _Janet says she ran into you, she's giving me shit for not telling her u were going to BC. Can I tell everyone else now?_

Steve smirked and replied _Guess so. I'm surprised you kept it secret this long. Last time I asked you to keep something on the DL, your parents knew I'd joined the Army before I did._

There was no reply for several minutes, and Steve boarded the bus. He was getting much better at ignoring the looks of annoyance from the bus driver and assorted passengers, which meant it was probably only a matter of time before he stopped noticing them all together. 

With a groan, the bus lurched forwards before he could remember to grab onto the post, and his phone fell onto the floor.  
A smiling woman in scrubs silently passed it back to him, and he muttered a thank you. 

His phone buzzed. 

> _Ha ha. I've apologized for that like 20 times man, what do you want from me? Also Mom called this morning, wants to know when you're gonna come by for dinner. Said to tell u she saw u more when u were overseas than when u were living in the next borough._

_That's a bit harsh._

> _Well, you know Mom. She's a good woman, God bless her, but she knows how to work a guilt trip._  
> 

Steve put down his phone and looked out the window. Sarah Wilson was one of the best women Steve knew. The kind of woman who would, upon learning that her son's new best friends were both residents in a group home, foster two teenage boys without a word of complaint. And yeah, she'd fostered before- but anyone who's been in the system knows that there is a world of difference between fostering cute kids while their parents get their lives together and taking on two stubborn and angry adolescents permanently. 

She was the best woman Steve knew, but by god did she ever know how to manipulate him. He supposed that was probably what mothers do best. 

_Tell her we'll be there Sunday. I'll even make Bucky shave._

>   
> _She'll be over the moon about that. Remember her face when he announced he was going to grow out his wispy little pube-beard?_

Steve chuckled to himself. 

_Only too well, god love her. Something about how it was all well and good to honour his heritage, but she was pretty sure his family weren't Hasids and if they were, they probably had the decency to wash their beards every once in a while._  


> _He was such a dirty kid. Idk what u ever saw in him._

_Look, he may have been a filth bag, but he was my filthbag and that's what matters._

> _You should put that in your wedding vows._

_Sam._

> _What? It's legal now, I'm just getting you in the groove 4 all of mom's unsubtle hints on Sunday_.

_Gee, thanks._

 

He got off at their block feeling good. Genuinely good, in a way he hadn't in a while. He had slept relatively well the night before, and even the stress of being around so many people on campus hadn't been too bad once he'd run into Janet. 

He pushed open his apartment door, already planning what he was going to make for dinner. He couldn't waste this mood on drawing or watching tv. Pulling up by the kitchen table, he frowned. 

Bucky was lying prone on the couch, his bad leg propped up with several cushions. His prosthetesis lay on the ground next to him, and his pills were on the back of the couch. 

“Huh?” Bucky said blearily. “Steve, 'sat you?”

“Course it is, dummy, who else has a key-- have you taken your pills already?”  
Normally, Bucky tried to avoid taking his medication during the day. He said it made him too sleepy to focus at work, so he usually didn't take it till he was done for the day, and that shouldn't be until-

“Bucky, why aren't you at work?” Steve pushed his chair next to the couch, until he could smell the alcohol on his breath. “What's wrong?”

Bucky smiled, his eyes still closed. It was not a nice smile. “I dunno, man... I was tired, and m'leg hurt like a motherfucker, and this guy kept talkin' and it was makin' me s'fucking angry...”

“Buck,” Steve said quietly, trying to push down the feelings of dread in his stomach. “What did you do?”

His lips twitched. “Mighta punched him.”

Steve groaned. “For Christ's sake, Buck.”

“I couldn'help it. It was like this... this fog came over me and made me do it.” 

Steve sighed and rubbed his temples. “Did you get fired?”

The silence that followed was a more than sufficient answer. 

“M'sorry, Stevie. Didn'mean to. No' really. M'just a fuckup.” 

Steve pushed a little closer and began to stroke Bucky's head gently. “It's ok, Buck. We'll figure something out.”

Bucky tried and failed to bat away Steve's hand. “Y'shouldn' have to. I'm s'posedta take care of you.”

“Not how this works, Buck. Never was. I'm with you till the end of the line, remember? We do this together.”

He glanced over at the bottle of hydromorphone. There were definitely fewer than there had been that morning. “Buck? How many pills did you take?”

Bucky squinted, and his eyes were glazed. “Dunno. Double dose, I think?”

Steve scowled. “That was a fucking stupid thing to do.”

The other man shrugged. “Hurt. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Steve snorted. “It always does, you jerk.” his voice was gentle. “I don't think you're supposed to just up your dose like that. And I _know_ you ain't supposed to drink with them. What the hell am I going to do with you, Barnes?”

“Keep doin' that,” he mumbled, rolling his head as Steve finished massaging his scalp and moved onto  
his neck. 

Steve smiled. “Well, I guess that's a start.” 

He turned the tv on, and Bucky rolled slightly towards him until half of his body was lying across Steve's lap. The late afternoon sun streamed through the window, and Steve leaned down to kiss the other man's forehead. He smelled like an ashtray. 

“Till the end of the line, right?” he whispered. In response, Bucky started to snore.

**Author's Note:**

> A complete roster of the New York Avengers, since you've been asking:  
> Bruce Banner= Class 2  
> Thor Odinson= Class 4  
> Janet Van Dyne= Class 2 plus 1 point deduction  
> Wanda Maximoff= Class 3 plus 1 point deduction  
> Steve Rogers= Class 1  
> Clint Barton= Class 1  
> Natasha Romanoff= Class 1 plus 1 point deduction  
> Tony Stark= Class 4.5  
> Sharon Carter= Class 4 plus 1 point deduction  
> Jessica Drew= Class 4 plus 1 point deduction  
> Sam Wilson= Class 3  
> \+ Carol Danvers, Class 4, currently playing for the University of Illinois Fightin' Ilini.


End file.
